Chapter VI: Emu Plains

‟FOR the first time,” said John Weston, “I’m not keen on going in to meet my daughters.”

“Then you ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said his wife briskly.

“Well, I am. And that’s why.”

“I never heard such nonsense,” Mrs. Weston said. “If every one in Australia who had had bad luck on top of a drought were to go about feeling ashamed, a nice place Australia would be! No one could have foreseen all the losses you have had. You certainly have no right to blame yourself.”

“Oh, I know all that,” said her husband, laughing rather grimly. “You needn’t ruffle up all your feathers, you fierce old mother-hen! But the youngsters may not realize it all; and anyway, it hurts a bit to meet them as a failure, and not as the person who has generally been regarded as a providing agency that always could be relied on. I feel as if I had let them down badly; and it isn’t a pleasant feeling, Mary. I get it every time Sarah glares at me.”

“But she isn’t glaring because we have lost money—only because we won’t let her stay without wages.”

“Oh, well, of course that’s rank insanity,” said her husband. “I wish I hadn’t any pride, for your sake; it makes me squirm whenever I think of your being without Sarah. But—one can’t do that.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t worry your dear old head about it,” said Mrs. Weston comfortably. “If I can’t manage, with two able-bodied daughters to help me, I should be the one to be ashamed. And we _are_ going to manage, and very happily too. I quite look forward to running the house with the girls. They are such cheery souls—they’ll always make the best of things.”

“Well, they get that from their mother,” said the big man, looking down at her with many things expressed in his grey eyes. “To hear you talk, one would think that all this trouble I’ve landed you in for was just a picnic.”

“If you want to make me really cross,” said his wife, looking at the moment as if nothing on earth could ruffle her, “you will continue to stand there and talk nonsense. I don’t worry when Billy tears his trousers, because I know that little boys _will_ tear their trousers, whether one worries or not; and I’m not going to worry when bad luck comes along, because one can’t expect good luck always. But I shall worry if you go about looking miserable: and it will be much harder for the girls. So you mustn’t.”

“Bless you!” said John Weston, his face suddenly grown younger. “Well, I suppose I’d better start.” He stooped to kiss her. “Where’s Billy?”

Billy answered for himself, characteristically. The gravel on the path by the window rattled under racing feet, and he came in through the window, crossing the sill with a swift, lithe movement.

“Didn’t touch the curtains, Mother—truly! I’ve been down at the creek, and I was afraid Father would be gone.”

“I nearly am,” said his father. “Are you ready, or will you have to clean up?”

“I’m pretty clean,” said Billy, looking down at himself. He was a slender, lightly built little fellow, with an elf-like face—with small features, and very bright brown eyes. Like his sisters’, his hair curled, but his was inclined to be red. Billy despised boys with curly hair, and would have had his shorn almost to the skin, had his mother permitted. “Do I need to put on another coat, Mother?”

“Certainly you need, my son. You’ll find a clean holland coat on your bed.”

“Hurry up, old man,” said his father. The injunction was lost on Billy. He dashed from the room, pounded down the hall, and returned in an astonishingly short space of time, spruce and merry. His father was already in the buggy. Billy dropped a hurried kiss on top of his mother’s head, and raced out to join him.

They drove in a high express-waggon, which had ample room behind for luggage: the two-wheeled “jinker,” or Mrs. Weston’s light hooded buggy, were no use when girls with trunks and suit-cases had to be brought home. A heavy pair of iron-grey horses bowled them along at a good round pace. They were horses accustomed to any sort of work: singly or together they went in the buggy, the plough, the cart; they might draw a disc-harrow to-day, and take a turn at rounding up cattle to-morrow. They were splendidly matched, and though just now they were in poor condition, they held themselves as proudly as thoroughbreds, as they trotted along. John Weston had bred them himself, and he loved the gentle, honest animals. His face was gloomy now as he watched them. All the district knew the big greys, and lately he had had a good offer for them. It was the kind of offer he would have laughed at a year ago. But now—money had become a big thing: Prince and Captain might have to go.

“May I drive, Father?”

Billy’s voice brought him out of a reverie.

“All right, Son.” He gave the reins into the eager brown hands, and made him hold them correctly, watching him as they spun along. Billy took them successfully over a rather narrow culvert, kept a wary eye upon a noisy motor-van, which did not trouble the greys at all, and presently dodged between a timber-waggon and a farm-cart in a way that brought a gruff word of praise to his father’s lips. This brought upon Billy the pride that goes before destruction, and in an effort to show how near he could drive to a hawker’s van he very nearly removed its wheel—bringing upon them the wrath of the hawker, with shouted inquiries as to whether they desired to retain the whole of the road. Somewhat chastened in spirit, Billy drove with great care, and gave other traffic a wide berth: so that they arrived in the township without further misadventure.

It was sale-day, and the little town was busy. Farmers’ buggies and motors thronged the streets; the shops were crowded with the cheery, brown-faced country women, who knew precisely what they wanted to buy, and were not to be deceived by the most tempting “bargain-lines” displayed at “alarming sacrifices” by the drapers. Little boys, in little tweed suits, and little girls, with well-frizzed hair, accompanied their mothers; while babies were as the sands of the sea in number. The fences surrounding the sale-yards were black with men; more sellers than buyers, for there were few men in the district with grass left for their stock. There were many hearty greetings for John Weston as he drove up the street.

“Getting the girls back, John?”

“Yes. And you’re in to meet Tom, I suppose?”

“Yes—he comes by this train. Now the house will wake up again!”

The speaker was a short, stout man with a round, good-humoured face, who sat in a motor outside the station. He was Evan Holmes, of Holmdale, the largest station in the district. Like all the other landowners, he had felt the drought; but, unlike them, he had a well-grassed property in Gippsland, where there was no drought, and he had sent his stock there until better conditions should come to the northern areas. Therefore his good-humour was unfailing, and no lines of worry had creased his brow. John Weston and he had been to school together, and, so far as was possible, he had stood by his old friend, sending some of his best cattle to Gippsland with his own. He looked up now and spoke concerning these.

“Heard from McIntyre this morning, John. He says your stock are doing splendidly.”

“Well, that’s something to be thankful for, at any rate,” said Weston.

“Wonderful season, down there. They grumble, of course, and say it’s dry—but compared to here——!” The speaker swept a hand round the dry landscape. “Green feed—strawberry clover, and all the rest of it: running creeks. I sometimes wonder we don’t all move down there.”

“This part is good enough for me,” said his friend. “We don’t get a drought every year.”

“That’s true. And you can’t beat it when we don’t. A man likes his own country, especially when he was born and brought up in it, as you and I were. Oh, well, bad times pass: everything comes right, if you give it long enough. How do the girls like coming home?”

“They write as if it were a huge joke: but of course I knew they wouldn’t grumble, whatever they might feel. The only thing that seemed to worry them was that their mother and I wouldn’t go down for the breaking-up.”

“Yes, that would worry the twins,” said Mr. Holmes. “Tom was a bit disgusted that I couldn’t get down for his, too: but my wife went. She’ll be home on Christmas Eve, but Tom wouldn’t stay: he always makes for home as quickly as he can. There’s the train now”—as a far-off whistle was heard. “Let my man hold your horses—he’s brought the cart in for some boxes. Here, Joe!” He whistled to a man who was lounging near the entrance-gate. John Weston got down from his high seat, and they went in together to the platform, where Billy was already dancing with impatience.

There was no difficulty in finding Jean and Jo. They had secured an open doorway, and, in complete defiance of railway regulations, were projecting their persons as far as possible into space, that they might the more quickly reach home. They uttered a composite shout at the sight of their father and Billy, and further defied the regulations by swinging themselves down from the train before it had come to a standstill. A wail from the station-master floated by them unheeded. They darted up the platform together and flung themselves upon their father.

“Do you behave like that in Melbourne?” he demanded, laughing, an arm round each.

“Gracious, no! we’re models of deportment,” Jo answered. “But then you’re not in Melbourne, and you’ve a terribly demoralizing effect, Father. Oh, there’s the baby! and he’s grown _yards_!” She hugged Billy.

“Baby yourself!” quoth Billy, indignantly. He hopped about them on one foot. “Give us something to carry—here, I’ll take that!” He grasped a suit-case.

“You can’t carry that, Billy darling—it’s too heavy,” Jean objected. “Take the umbrellas.”

“Umbrellas!” snorted her brother. “Boys don’t cart umbrellas round.” Gripping the suit-case, he staggered off, unheeding feminine remonstrances.

“How are you, Tom?” Mr. Weston detached himself from his daughters to greet a stout youth who had followed them from the train. “Glad to see you back, though you’ve come to a dry country.”

“It’s the best place I know, anyhow,” said Tom Holmes, shaking hands all round, and bestowing a shy grin upon the twins. “And we’ll get rain some time or other, and then every one’ll have a few thumping seasons and forget the drought. I wish Dad would let me cut school and stay at home to help him: I’ll never do a bit of good at school, and I do love messing about at home.”

“Lazy young dog!” said his father cheerfully. “Another year’s lessons won’t hurt you.”

Tom groaned dramatically.

“Latin!” he said, with a resigned shrug. “And maths! I try to stick arithmetic, so’s I’ll be able to work out interest on mortgages”—he grinned at his father—“but I’m blessed if I can see the use of Euclid or Horace or Virgil on a cattle-station. I seem to spend half my time over Virgil, but I never learn a word that’ll be handy in a tight corner with bullocks!”

“Ah, that’s specialized knowledge, and comes later on,” said his father, laughing. “Come along, now, and gather up your luggage: we’ve got to have dinner at the hotel. Any use asking you and the girls to join us, John?”

“No, thanks; my wife will be looking out for us. I never can get the girls home quickly enough.” They said good-bye, and presently the twins were installed on the seat of the express-waggon, their father between them, while Billy perched on top of the heap of luggage at the back. Jo had the reins: it was an understood thing that she always drove when they came home. She wheeled the greys out of the crowded yard, dodging among motors, carts, and buggies, and in a few moments they were spinning along the dusty road towards home.

“Whew-w!” said Jean. “_Isn’t_ everything dry!”

The familiar landscape was dreary in its barrenness. Nothing green was visible, save the line of trees that marked the nearly dry bed of the creek. The paddocks were brown stretches, almost bare: little swirls of dust rose here and there as the hot breeze blew over them. They passed crops—sad little crops of oats that had come into ear while only about a foot high, and were now not worth the labour of cutting.

Scarcely any stock could be seen. A few dusty brown sheep picked up a scant living in the paddocks near the creek, and here and there were hungry-looking cows, only kept alive by hand-feeding, and apparently getting short rations of that. Everywhere dust lay thick: on the fences, on the dried-up grass by the roadside, on the dull green leaves of the hawthorn hedges past which they drove. It was clear that many weeks had gone by since a shower of rain had fallen to wash the all-covering dust away.

“Yes—you never saw the country looking like this before,” said John Weston sadly.

“No, indeed. It comes home to you with a sort of a bang,” Jo agreed. “Poor old Dad!” She put her hand on his for a brief moment.

“Wait until you see the stock,” he said sadly. “That’s what hurts: to ride out among them day after day, watching them getting poorer and poorer, and to feel you can’t do anything to help them. I’m almost ashamed to go out now—they seem to look at me as if they expected me to help. Of course, most of them have gone—the cattle, I mean. Some I sold, the rest have gone down to Gippsland. Holmes says they’re doing well enough there.”

“What about the garden, Dad?” Jean asked.

“Oh, we’ve still a garden, thank goodness—you see, the windmill pumps the water up from the spring, and it’s one of those obliging servants that works all the twenty-four hours and never asks for pay. So we can still keep the vegetables and your mother’s garden going. But we’ll have to do it ourselves: I’ve been compelled to let the Chinaman go. Sorry, too: he had the place in splendid order.”

“We’ll work,” said Jo cheerfully. “I’m very handy with a hoe.” She grinned across her father at Jean. “‘Member our old gardens, Jean?”

“Rather!” said Jean. “We had awful bursts of industry, and made them lovely, and planted all sorts of seeds, and then some evil influence came along——”

“Generally Dad, with a job among the cattle,” remarked Jo.

“Why, you monkey——!” protested Mr. Weston.

“Just so,” Jean went on. “And so we would forget them, and the weeds would grow faster than the seeds, and presently there’d be nothing left of our poor gardens, ’cause Hop Sing would come along and dig them all up. Then we’d make another start!”

“Well, you’d better not grow vegetables on those principles,” said Mr. Weston, laughing, “or it will be a bad look-out for our dinners. Not that I’m going to let you do much work of that kind. I suppose I’ll be glad enough of some help with weeding now and then—my back isn’t as young as it was—but you’ll have plenty to do without that.” He sighed heavily. “That’s the worst of it all—so much is going to fall on your mother and you two; and I can’t help it. If only I could keep old Sarah—and it’s going to take a team of bullocks to shift her! She wants to stay without pay, bless her—says she’s got enough saved up for her old age. But of course we can’t allow that.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” agreed the twins demurely. They exchanged, behind their father’s back, ecstatic glances, which greatly puzzled Billy. “But you mustn’t worry, Dad: we’re awfully strong, and we won’t let Mother do too much. It’s all going to be great fun!”

“I hope you’ll continue to think so,” said their father dryly. “You’re dear kiddies, anyhow, and we’ll all try to make things easy for each other. Mother’s the one who has to be spared in every way: I know you’ll always remember that. Doing without Sarah is going to be harder for her than any of us can guess—not that she ever says so. But I know.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Jean, with a queer little giggle that brought an inquiring look from her father. It was not quite like Jean to giggle at such a moment. Probably, he reflected, she was over-excited at getting home.

“I’m going to milk with Dad!” announced Billy, proudly, from his perch in the rear. “I’ve been practising, and I’ve milked old Strawberry three times!”

“Good old Billikens!” said Jo, turning to give him a sisterly pat. “Is it hard?”

“Men don’t find those things hard,” said Billy loftily. “You girls will have to be up to give us early tea before we start!”

“It shall be done,” said Jo meekly. “Any other orders?”

“I’ll let you know if there’s anything else,” replied Billy, preserving an unruffled masculine dignity. “Dad’s going to start teaching me all about the stock soon. He says I can be useful to him in no end of ways.”

“Yes—but lessons have got to come first, old son,” remarked his father.

“Oh, lessons! _They_ won’t take long,” remarked Billy airily. Plainly it could be seen that he regarded the prospect of education under his sisters as a huge joke.

“You little know,” said Jean darkly. “We mean to turn you out a beautiful specimen of Higher Education before we’ve done with you. Manners and Deportment will be taught—sternly taught, young Billy!—and also Respect for Teachers——”

“Oh, _will_ you?” responded Billy. He tipped his prospective instructor’s hat over her eyes, and scrambled off across the luggage to avoid reprisals. They were just turning in towards the big gate that opened into the homestead paddock. Billy swung himself to the ground before the buggy had stopped, and, racing ahead of the greys, flung open the gate with a flourish. Looking at him, his hat pushed back on his curly head, his brown face glowing, and his eyes alight with laughter and mischief, it was difficult to imagine him as either a station-hand in the making or a docile pupil—especially in Deportment.

“You’ll have your hands full with him, I’m afraid,” remarked Mr. Weston.

“Oh, Billy will be all right,” said Jo confidently. Something in the certainty of her voice gave comfort to the harassed man at her side.

“I believe everything will seem more all right, now that you two have come home,” he said. “It’s high time you did—we’re almost forgetting how to laugh.”

“Well, no one could forget how to laugh with Jean about——” said Jo.

“Or with Jo,” put in Jean.

“Because she’s such a perfect ass!” finished the twins, in complete unison.